Powder
by Perks of Being a Whovian
Summary: John pays an unexpected visit to 221b Baker Street in order to save Sherlock from himself.


**Disclaimer: I don't, nor do I claim to own Sherlock or anything surrounding it. **

**Author's note: I just wrote this when I had a spare moment between revising and sleeping, so I hope you enjoy this little ficlet. There are mentions of drug use, so bear that in mind if content of this kind makes you uncomfortable. Please review!**

**Powder**

On the fiftieth day of living away from 221b Baker Street, John hailed a cab and made his way back there. Fortunately for him, he could wander into the building no-questions-asked, because after he'd moved out, Mrs Hudson hadn't the heart to take his key from him. As he recalled, she said something along the lines of "You'll be back, dear. I'm sure of it," before patting dry the lone tear that had spilled onto her cheek and giving him a watery grin.

Walking directly to the kitchen, he searched methodically and quickly through each of the cupboards, picking out every item of drug paraphernalia that Sherlock had hidden there and ensuring that it was tucked safely away in the bottom of a bin bag. He'd made certain before doing this that he was the apartment's only occupant, with his former flatmate out investigating another case and Mrs Hudson visiting an old friend of hers named Doreen, as he didn't want either of them questioning his reasons for getting rid of what accounted for around a third of Sherlock's possessions.

If they were there, Sherlock would inevitably try to stop him while Mrs Hudson would probably mutter something entirely fictitious about his and the consulting detective's previous relationship. Something extremely fictitious, in fact. Well… quite fictitious. Partially fictitious. Maybe just a little bit fictitious.

Not fictitious. Not in the slightest.

He felt no guilt as he placed the sealed bag on the worktop and began repeatedly hitting it with a rolling pin. In fact, he found the sound of it therapeutic: glass smashing, plastic cracking, metal whining as it was bent irreparably out of shape. When he reopened it, all that remained within was a fine dust with a few chunks of metal silver amongst the powder.

Next, he reached for the drawers and yanked them open. He already knew where Sherlock stored the clear little plastic pouches filled with questionable-looking white powders and crystals, despite his former flatmate's apparent belief that John had absolutely no knowledge of their hiding-place or even their existence, so he tore them out from beneath the piles of leaflets that they'd accumulated and laid them out in front of them.

Although he was a doctor, it was a struggle to identify about half of the substances he'd discovered, and impossible to identify another quarter of them, leaving only a few that were recognisable to him. It did not matter to him, though, what they were.

What mattered was getting rid of them.

He took perhaps a little too much joy in opening each packet, one-by-one, and tipping its contents into the sink.

A smug smile crept onto his face as he turned on the tap and water began to slowly dilute the poisons that were slowly killing his best friend. As they sunk bit-by-bit down the plughole, he was fascinated by the way each grain danced through the tiny whirlpool that had formed, imagined them running through the drains and out of the building, as far away from Sherlock as possible.

He was startled from his trance-like state by the sound of a door crashing open and a blood-splattered Sherlock walking calmly through it. Not even bothering to question why his friend's attire was in such a gory state, John froze in shock. "Afternoon," the consulting detective said in greeting, nodding his head once and wandering into the lounge, acting as if nothing was at all out of the ordinary. A spark of realization washed through him, then, and John noticed the slight tensing of his friend's bony frame as he turned confusedly to face him. "John, why are you in my flat? Stupid question, actually, don't bother answering." The only reply he received from the army-doctor was a loud, heavy sigh. "Slight powder residue on the worktop, the sink and, most notably, your fingertips…" Sherlock's eyes widened. "No! You wouldn't!"

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm staging an intervention."


End file.
